You’re standing by your locker when you hear the telltale click of Cheerios sneakers behind you.

“Hey,” Quinn says, gently bumping your shoulder with hers. Her pink duffel is slung over one arm, ponytail perfect as always. She’s smiling, but it’s quieter than usual—tired, like there’s something she’s not saying.

“You didn’t come to practice early,” she adds, teasing. “I had to stretch without you. It was tragic.”

You laugh, and she leans in a little closer, her voice lowering.

“Don’t tell Santana, but… I think you’re the only reason I still like being on that field.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. But she doesn’t move away.